Polaroids
by born30
Summary: A running collection of Tiva drabbles in all shapes and sizes.
1. Schooled

**None of these drabbles are truly connected, except for being Tiva. There's humor, romance. This first one is new(!), but the next few will be oldies from Tumblr. Hopefully I can continue to add new stuff.**

 **Schooled (1/?)**

Tony stared out into the hallway, the wash of students a flood between bells. "Smells like teen spirit."

"And is that smell sweaty armpits?" Ziva scrunched her nose and waved her hand to clear the air. Her wrist cloaked in bracelets caught his eye—again. Not to mention the painted nails and her skirt-and-heels to round out the disguise.

God bless undercover ops.

But even his partner all prim and polished couldn't distract him from the panic swelling acid in his gut.

"Scary, isn't it?"

"I agree," Ziva said as she slouched against the wall outside his pretend classroom. "Boys should not wear those monkey jeans, yes?"

"You mean skinny jeans. I think."

"Whatever. Very unattractive."

"Not that."

"Then what," she demanded, leaning in ever so slightly.

Tony noted—and appreciated—her tactic, but all it elicited from him was a dejected sigh. Things were bad if he passed up a prime opportunity to smell her hair.

Ziva tilted her head, still trying. "Is substitute teaching a challenge for you, Tony?"

"Nothing is too challenging for this Very Special Agent." Yet, another sigh depressed his chest as a group of varsity jackets swaggered by.

This was supposed to be easy in, easy solve-the–mystery-of-who-killed-the-retired-marine-turned-teacher-working-at-the-high-school-at-Quantico case. As much as it pained him to admit, Ziva was partly right—teaching was harder than it looked. After just two class periods with Navy brats aplenty, Tony had come to a realization that frightened him to the core.

"I could be their…dad, Ziva." The confession escaped with a cringe. "How is that possible?"

Her laugh was deep, throaty—and he almost overlooked that she was laughing at him. "Biologically or—"

The warning bell sounded, and the students, well, ignored it and continued talking with their friends.

"Way to kick a man when he's down, David." With a scoff, he perched his arm against the metal doorframe above her head.

The all-too-familiar pose was not lost on Ziva. She stepped into his space, paying great attention to smoothing down his tie, her hand lingering on his chest. "Look on the bright side, Tony, at least you are not actually any of their fathers. Are you not afraid of children?"

"I wouldn't call it a fear..." He absentmindedly ironed the same stretch of tie that she'd touched. "Maybe a mild allergy."

"You told me that you almost died in the child care room." Her dark eyes sparkled and teased. "What is it about sweet little children that terrify you, anyway?"

"Hey, you weren't there! Those sweet little children were everywhere, okay, like a tiny mob of sticky hands and runny noses, and they put this green stuff everywhere that I'm still not positive wasn't chemical waste because it never came out of my pants and—"

"Oh my God, please stop." Ziva pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger, shutting her eyelids before snapping them open and taking him by the shoulders. Her gaze was steel. "Tony, look at me. These are teenagers, not small, harmless children. They are practically adults, and we will only be here until Gibbs gets his man. You will be fine."

He stared back into her eyes, searching. "What if I'm not, Ziva?" His insecurity—hushed, fragile—blinded him from the softening of his partner. "What if I'm still like this when I…"

"You won't." Her confidence reached him like cool water to his parched soul.

Tony gulped, not totally convinced but not wanting to argue with her. "You think so?"

"Yes. And until then…" Ziva whirled around him in the direction of her classroom down the hall. "Man up." The order was accompanied by a firm smack to his butt.

Tony swayed, probably blushing—and lighter. "You're very persuasive, Ms. David!" His shout drew the scorn of a passing gaggle of girls. "Teacher conference," he explained. "Move along."

Looking up again, he caught sight of Ziva's sly smile before she slipped into the sea of students. And maybe, he thought… Maybe there was something—or someone—to dispel his fears, after all.

Shaking out his shoulders like a boxer preparing for round two, Tony drew a breath and stepped back into his classroom.

"You got this, DiNozzo."


	2. Laser Tag

**Laser Tag (2/?)**

"Well, this puts a damper on the festivities," McGee bemoaned, steering them out of the darkened maze; the only illumination was flashing, multi-colored strobe lights; the war waged on without them, complete with shouting and explosions. "I had no idea you would get so into laser tag. I wouldn't have waited until my birthday to invite you along with me."

"Do not—oof!" On her one good foot, Ziva hefted up a low embankment, pressing into him for leverage. "…perspire about it, my friend. It was an accident."

"Don't sweat."

She jerked them to a halt, a scoff flying off her tongue. "It's not like I can help it right now!"

"No, I didn't mean—"

"Hey, what's going on here?" Tony bounded out of a hallway on their right, holstering his laser gun when the sight in front of him gained full implication. "Fraternizing with the enemy, Probette? You're on my team!"

"Are you saying I should fraternize with _you_ , Tony?"

A smug smile swerved his lips high to one corner. "I wouldn't say no—"

"Come on, you guys. It's bad enough at the office and crimes scenes; can't you just chill for one night? Besides, Ziva's hurt." McGee gestured to her elevated foot. "I'm taking her to the emergency room."

"Oh, that is not necessary," she demurred, giving the chest plate of his flashing, plastic vest a few pats of reassurance and gratitude as she leveled her weight out between both feet and—

"Whoa!"

"Hey!"

Both Tony and McGee lunged toward her tipping frame, each catching a side of her body and bracing her back to upright.

"I'll take it from here, McLaserNerd." Tony had his vest and holster stripped in a blink—and all without letting go of his share of Ziva.

"It is not necessary!" she repeated, even as her partner unbuckled and lifted her vest up over her head.

"You sure you got it?"

Tony glared at the junior special agent, shoving all the gear into his arms. "Don't worry. I'll make sure everyone stays _chill_."

McGee rolled his eyes. "Hope your ankle feels better, Ziva. Sorry again."

She blew him a kiss as he returned to the fray. Then she turned to Tony with a frown and a warning: "We are not going to the emergency room."

"Nope," he agreed while sliding one arm around her back and the other behind her thighs. "We're going home. All you need is ice, an Ace bandage for when the swelling goes down…" With a grunt and _lift, lift_ of bent knees, he scooped her up into his embrace.

"Tony!"

"And a Spencer Tracy classic to take you mind off everything. I'm thinking _It's a Mad, Mad, Mad—_ "

"Tony. Please, put me down. It's just a sprained ankle." The independent agent squirmed, but the action only caused his grip to tighten.

"Give me this one thing, Ziva. I'm a god among nerds here, okay? Let me live out the dream."

Her chuckles vibrated in his chest, and he couldn't help the beam from splitting his mouth wide.

"In that case…" Vigilance left her body; her head rested on his shoulder. "Take me home. Yours or mine?"

"I've been thinking about that, actually."

"You have?"

"Yeah." Tony angled them at the exit, secretly thanking whatever deity responsible that it was her right foot injured, so the battle for who drove would be moot. "I think we have one too many apartments between us and should consider, you know, consolidating…"

 **Look for the next piece tomorrow. :)**


	3. Morning

**Thank you all for the kind words :)**

 **Morning (3/?)**

Tony was almost asleep, but the slab of weight on his torso shifted and he roused, eyelids flicking open to silky coils—then it all seared in flashes of skin and pressure and _right there there yes there oh_ —

Visceral force took pleasure in delivering a replay of the final moments: her above him, the arch of her low back, the rise of toned arms toward the ceiling as if in praise of their divine bodies, symmetrical in creation—on separate continents, in book-ended decades; a rock forward over the center of their holy union and _stop_ ; a mew, stricken and thin, from the labyrinth of her throat, and she'd collapsed—right where she lay over him now.

And he was winded anew.

Making love to Ziva David was always a thing to remember—and usually daydream about later—but this particular pre-dawn coupling was…

A long-held breath slivered out between his teeth. _Indescribable_.

Her groggy hum vibrated in his chest; she stirred for a second time, a tabby cat curling in and out.

"Morning," his mouth murmured; _morning_ , his hands whispered along her bare sides; morning, caroled the rays pouring hushed and creamy through the windows over the headboard. "Again."

A soft snort accompanied the lift of her head. Cinnamon on toast, her eyes gazed lazily, all other features feathered in the low, intimate light between them. It was hard to believe her capable of killing men twice her size in such a snapshot.

He curbed the urge to roll her under him.

Compromise was hiking her up his body, skin chafing and pinching, closer, stealing a warm kiss, or several. His post-coital romantic wondering: was there a word for that, an embrace that had only a beginning but no end?

Marriage, Tony thought, might be the answer, as it was to many things: devotion, responsibility, trust.

He felt the bevel of his wife's tongue slide past his lips; a little more and her affection fell sideways off his mouth, landing on his cheek, stubbled jaw—then gone completely.

"Do you ever"—breaths hot over his chin—"think about us…"

Rising smirk, roaming hands. "You bet I am right now, Sweetcheeks."

Ziva hummed, less groggy than before, and sat up, chest and stomach peeling away, capturing scraps of him, how a band-aid collected bites of flesh and left behind something raw, bared. Her hips rolled back over the still-tender junction of his thighs, but he could hardly feel the sting while exposed to the panacea of her honeyed figure, uninhibited and lax in the stale air; his heavy awe followed the line of contour from hipbone across creased torso to indent of rib, the constellation of female form.

"You did not let me finish, Tony. I meant, us and… _more_."

"Ahh." He exhaled puffs of humor. "Well, I'm going to need you to put on some underwear before you say anything else."

"I do not believe that is how it works," she remarked dryly but obliged, dismounting him for unclaimed bedding.

He flipped toward her onto his side, propping himself up on his palm. "I know how it works, Ziva. I _love_ how it works, believe me, and I love practicing it with you."

"I have not noticed." She towed the single white sheet up over her breasts, shielding them from his view.

Bummer.

"Hmm. Unobservant and a rampant liar? Doesn't sound like the woman I married."

"I am many things, Tony," she told him as much as the open space above their bed.

"And now you want to add 'Mommy' to that list."

"I would not object to her calling me 'Mama' or ' _Ima_ ,' if that—"

"Her?" More tumbling chuckles. "You've given this some thought."

Slim shoulders and pouting mouth dismissed in tandem. "Some."

"So it's true what they say—all a newly-married woman thinks about is getting pregnant."

"It is not _all_ I think about..."

But it was on her mind enough to talk about it, and mention it repeatedly over the past few months. Tony knew she rarely engaged in battles she couldn't win. If this was even a fight they were having at all.

He certainly didn't slip between the sheets with the enemy, as he did then, cozying alongside her, damn the consequences on his thought process; it was into her neck that he breathed a potent reminder, "Like I've always said, I want what you want."

Doubt rumbled under his lips, an earthquake rattling the walls of her throat. "Yes, but this cannot be only what _I_ want. You must not have a reservoir about it."

"It's _reservation_. And I, uh, I don't have any, really."

Maybe it was time to add onto that list: devotion, responsibility, trust…legacy.

"You are sure?" Wariness winnowed her voice unusually small and hesitant.

He didn't say he would give her anything. He didn't say he was overjoyed she would be the mother of his children. He didn't say.

Tony angled back, ironing smooth her worry lines with the heat of his smile, and placed a kiss on her swollen lips, under her jaw, the plain of her breastbone, in the valley between rounded hills…until the covers swallowed him in a cotton sea; her taut stomach was a raft onto which he clung, ear to the soft waves, sailing home.

"Baby," he sang, filling her empty womb with promise; _baby_ , she echoed from above, her strong thighs knotting him to her; baby, the ruddy missing puzzle piece of their love.

And all around them it was morning, again.


	4. The Hunt

**You're all too sweet – thanks for your thoughts. :)**

 **The Hunt (4/?)**

Tony had only been awake for possibly a minute—jarred from active dreams by a rapid series of knocks at his door—but he was still pretty sure the list she'd shoved into his hands upon plowing into his apartment read, among other items: "Rope. Vaseline. Switchblade. Uh, Ziva?"

"What?"

A light flipped on in the kitchen around the corner. He could hear her rummaging through cabinets.

"Why exactly do you need chloroform at 2 a.m.? Or ever. What is all this stuff for?"

More rummaging.

The special agent swallowed around a flutter of anxiety in his throat. "Please tell me this is some kind of scavenger hunt."

"Yes, of course, Tony." His partner appeared suddenly in the archway between the dining and living rooms, a pair of scissors dangling by their handle off her forefinger. "What else would it be?"

Airy chuckles tumbled off the edges of his sleepy grin. "Good. You had me worried for a minute there. If I didn't know better, my ninja, I'd think you're getting ready to kidnap somebody in the dead of night."

The very recently retired Mossad assassin cocked her head to the side. "Is not a 'scavenger hunt' what you Americans call hunting down an abusive boyfriend and scaring him witless?"

"You probably mean shi—nevermind. And no, that is not what a scavenger hunt means at all." Tony sighed, scrubbing at his face. "Is this boyfriend—"

"A woman in my apartment building has been firm, but he will not take the clue from her."

Tony bit his tongue. Of all the absurdities to unfold in the past two minutes, her incorrect use of idioms was low on his list of priorities. To _her_ list, he looked again.

"I think there's one thing you forgot on here."

Ziva was at his side in a few quick strides, leaning into him for a better angle to skim the catalog of supplies. "I don't see anything missing."

Tony took a surreptitious whiff of her ponytail—lavender shampoo—and made his decision. His hand found her chin, guiding her gaze away from the scrap of paper and onto him.

"Switchblade. Scissors. Chloroform," he ticked off, pausing to drop a kiss to the mouth of his very recently officiated girlfriend. "Partner."


	5. First Aid

**First Aid (5/?)**

"Find it yet?"

Ziva stretched further across the driver's seat, one leg popping off the ground as her weight shifted. It wasn't between the console either…

She sighed— _where was it? —_ but she wasn't about to admit defeat, or worse, admit she was wrong. Especially not to her partner.

"It would go faster if you were helping me," she griped from the passenger foot well, checking the underside of that seat while she was down there.

"No thanks," came his airy, distracted reply from outside the SUV—more accurately, from _behind_ her. "I like the view right here."

Tony might have been a federal agent, but he startled like a spooked child when the former Mossad ninja swiftly extricated herself from the vehicle and turned on him, brown eyes blazing in the summer sun overhead. He exhaled anxious chuckles, his smile dazzling.

"Come on, you know I was just kidding!"

Ziva narrowed her gaze, running her tongue over the backs of her top teeth. She stepped close to him in the space of the open car door, their t-shirts not quite grazing. It forced him to look at her, shades slipping down the bridge of his nose. Despite the heated mood, he nudged the brim of her ball-cap up—the better to see her deadly glare.

A shadow formed between them.

"If you do not wish to help me," she intoned, tilting her head so his broad shoulders blocked the sun's rays, "all you will have the privilege of doing for the rest of the week is _looking_."

Cheers from beyond the parking lot rose and faded; a whistle shrieked. There must have been a goal.

After adjusting her hat, his hand had dropped to her shoulder, and he squeezed there now. "You wouldn't."

Surely he was thinking back to the previous times such a threat had been made and followed through: those dark, lonely, no-touching stretches of punishment. Tony lasted a few hours, at the most. His apologizes came quick, dripping from hungry lips, laced on the rough, aching run of his skin.

Ziva shrugged off his touch, smirking. "I do not make bottomless threats, Tony."

" _Baseless_ , honey." He pushed his sunglasses into place, resigned. "I'll start on the trunk."

The victorious smile was just blooming on her lips as a sweet little voice drew their attention.

"Momma, Daddy?" In her emerald uniform and cleats, Sarah DiNozzo hobbled toward them favoring her left leg. Pig-tail braids the color of milk chocolate bounced around her ears.

Both parents lunged, but Tony reached her first, tugging her against his side to rest. Her chin cleared his belt now—when had that happened? "What're you doing? We told you to wait on the bench, sweetheart."

"We were looking for the first-aid kit," Ziva explained, cursing herself for how off-task they'd gotten.

"It's okay!" Sarah chirped with her usual easy-going nature; in that way, she was her father's daughter. She hiked up the hem of her athletic shorts, baring the red gash striped across her non-kicking knee. "It stopped bleeding pretty quick, so I don't think I need a band-aid any—"

"You still need to clean the wound, or else you could develop an infection, _Sarahleh_." Ziva swept back to the SUV, searching and searching anew.

Behind her back, Tony and Sarah exchanged knowing looks. _Mom_.

"Ahh yes—found it!" Ziva emerged from the backseat brandishing the white container. "I told you it was in the car."

"Didn't doubt you for a second," Tony pledged, with a wink. He knelt, and Sarah used his knee as a stool while her mother administered the antiseptic, dabbed to the abrasion with a cotton ball. Next went on the Neosporin and a band-aid large enough to cover not only the wound, but also her entire kneecap. All the while the family discussed the umpteenth Minion movie to hit theaters later that summer.

" _Banana!_ " Tony imitated, eliciting a giggle from his first-grader.

Ziva hummed, smoothing down the edges of the adhesive bandage. "There, _b'seder_?"

"Yeah, thanks, Momma." Sarah launched up, her healing time miraculous. She bent her knees, testing. "It feels good, can I go back now?"

"You sure?" Tony held her by the elbow, still.

"Yeah! Coach said I could play the last few minutes of the game if I got 'patched up.' And look—" The young girl jumped where she stood, landing with a grace belying her sporty façade; over a year of dance classes hadn't gone to waste completely. "So can I, can I, can I _plllleassse_?"

The parents exchanged knowing looks. _Sarah_.

"Of course, we will be right there to watch you." Ziva towed her daughter into a hug, and Sarah clutched her father in a fleeting embrace before racing off in the direction of the soccer field.

"Hurry up!" she called back to them.

Ziva flung the infamous first-aid kit back into the strange depths of the car and slammed the door shut; Tony locked it up with the key fob.

"Tough as nails, that one," he remarked, tossing a casual arm over her shoulders.

They started off, and Ziva pressed into his side, her own arm lazing around his low back. She grabbed at him—gathering shirt and bits of skin in the loving pinch of her trimmed nails. He laughed.

"Just like her Mom."

On that, they could both agree.


	6. Sunday

**Because it wouldn't be Mother's Day without me writing a Tiva fic! (Also, posted independently and then I changed my mind.)**

…

Tony knew a Sunday.

Like when a suspect was lying to him, or when Ziva needed a trip to the gun range, and usually a few seconds before one of the kids lost their shit in the grocery store. He just knew.

And that morning was Sunday. No alarm. No trilling cell phone, delivering gloom and marching orders. No—

"Do not jinx it." Ziva whispered the warning, a slender arm draped over her eyes.

Not for the first time, he envisioned her some Greek goddess sculptured in marble. He preferred the real thing.

"You don't know what I was going to say."

"The children, yes?"

They should have heard from their offspring by now, at least.

"Okay. You knew what I was going to say." His grin melted the words soft. They might have melted regardless.

It was too hot for covers. It was too hot to sleep, to touch her, his human furnace of a partner. (In the shower, he'd slough sand from the skin behind her ear and swear she was made of the stuff.)

Tony risked being burned. Touching made it Sunday, too.

Ziva complained on principal, he figured, because her knee hooking onto his hip hadn't been part of his agenda. Risk, reward.

He took another.

"Now read my mind," Tony husked, knotting his fingers into her curls.

She turned her head, sighing with the tension his hold on her produced. "I do not need to. It is all over your face."

"What is?"

"That look."

"Look?" He skimmed her mouth, dropping the question mark into the corner. "What about it?"

"It has given us two children." Her golden eyes narrowed, but hazily. Maybe he was the hazy one.

Laughter rustled like leaves in his chest, and he kissed her, tasting the tang of sweat on her top lip that usually came with hours of love-making. Too hot, indeed.

"It's probably good for one more," Tony slurred, high on her and them and the sunlight slitting into their bedroom. Their quiet bedroom.

Too quiet. Kids—their kids—were never so—

Ziva's chuckles bubbled across his tongue as her nails returned the favor, nipping his scalp here and there. "Is that so, _mon cherie_?"

Her voice went like champagne to his head. The tingly sensation spread south. He slipped his hand up her thigh; his mouth murmuring against some smooth, smooth part of her, "So."

She squeezed her leg, the cobra around his waist. Their hips met, flush and needy. And he knew what was what coming. Knew like Sunday.

They were never _that_ lucky.

"Mama, Daddy," sang the first munchkin through their door, his face obscured by flowers plucked at random from the bouquet Tony'd brought home the night before.

Their daughter was a step behind, balancing a full breakfast tray with no lack of consternation. "Careful, Sammy. Those are for Mama."

"For me?" Ever the ninja, Ziva had covered her amorous power-move well, rolling off her husband into an innocuous upright seat on the edge of the mattress. Her dexterity did nothing to cool Tony down.

Little Sam presented the flowers, their stems dented by his thick grip. Then he wasted no time converting his parents' mattress into a trampoline, crushing Tony's shins in the process, which prompted his big sister to screech, "You're ruining Mother's Day!" and chase him through the house.

The bedroom fell quiet again. A stunned quiet. The parents exhaled, Tony whimpering over his bruised legs.

"Little Sam's getting big."

"Yes. They both are." Ziva smiled and leaned into his chest, pushing them over. "One more, hmm," she purred into a kiss.

The sheets were miraculously chill. They shivered, limbs overlapped, listening to their children pound and scream.

Tony tugged her into his arms, closing his eyes. "Why not?"

It was a Sunday, after all.

…


End file.
